


A Hawk and a Handsaw

by standbygo



Series: Madness in Great Ones [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Reichenbach, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:14:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's had a difficult time dealing with Sherlock's death. Sherlock's life was hell.</p>
<p>“John, John, John, that’s John, hello John, hello John.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hawk and a Handsaw

**Author's Note:**

> I am but mad north-north-west; when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.  
> \- Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2
> 
> Thank you to HamsterMoon for the lovely cover art!

[](https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/4NzmNNg9MNhsbQdMnN4ZedMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite)

John walked out the side door of the clinic, throwing a wave over his shoulder at the nurses finishing up their paperwork. God, what a long day, with everyone coming in with the sniffles and imagining it to be pneumonia.

He pulled his coat a bit closer around him, wishing he had worn his warmer coat today. But even as he thought this, his eye caught a group of panhandlers on the street, and he felt guilty for having more than one warm coat in his closet at home.

“Spare change, sir?” one of them asked. John would often give them a pound when he could, but today he genuinely had no change, just big bills from the bank machine. And while he wasn’t worried about the panhandlers, it wouldn’t do to wave the bills about.

Every few steps, a new voice would call out, “Spare change?” He tucked his chin into his coat and sped up a bit.

“Just a pound, sir, so I can get some coffee?”

“I need bus fare to Manchester, sir, my mother’s ill, can you-”

“Please sir?”

Then a mutter that made John stumble: “John, John, John, that’s John, hello John, hello John.”

_You’re projecting again,_ John thought _. Remember when he first died, and you did a double take at every tall bloke wearing a long coat? Sign of grieving, remember?_

And yet… The voice was scratchy, filled with gravel, but deep and sonorous and had said his name and _it couldn’t be_ …

John turned to look at the man curled up against the brick wall, wrapped in a ragged blanket, head down, face covered by a hoodie. “You know me?” he asked.

“Hello John, hello John, hello.”

John hunkered down and tried to get his heart to slow down a bit, but the thumps rocking his body were the only thing to convince him he wasn’t dreaming. “What’s your name?”

There was a pause, and John heard the man huffing as though trying to speak. “Can’t say. Can’t say. Bright hair. Mummy didn’t like it.”

_Mummy? Holy God_ , thought John.

“Can I see your face, please?”

The man immediately shied away like a beaten dog. “It’s all right,” John said, because now he had to know, he couldn’t rest until he saw the man’s face, see for himself that he was imagining this, just the aftereffect of grief he thought he’d put to rest after three years, he’d look and then give the poor man a twenty pound note and go home and have a large drink. “It’s all right, I won’t hurt you.”

The man hesitated, but stopped cowering. “It’s okay,” John crooned, using his best ‘I’m a doctor’ voice.

The man licked his lips several times, clenched his fists and spoke. “Yes, yes, John won’t hurt me. Punch me in the face if I ask. I lost my face, though, lost it in Prague, put it back? Please John?”

And John pushed his hand through the fog of disbelief and pushed the hoodie back and saw the filthy face, bruised cheekbone, matted hair, and eyes that were grey and blue and green.

“Jesus God,” John breathed.

 

~~~

No cabs would stop for them, and so they walked the whole way back to Baker Street. Sherlock had a bad limp and occasionally bashed into him, bumping John’s shoulder. He had not spoken a word since John had pulled his hoodie back. John kept stealing glances at him, questions and doubt fighting for space in his head.

_This is ridiculous,_ John thought _. He’s dead, you saw it. You were in therapy for two years because you saw him jump off the roof. People don’t come back from the dead. You’re being absolutely ridiculous._

_Nearly as ridiculous as agreeing to move in with Sherlock within a day of meeting him, then killing a man to save him._

And why was Sherlock acting like this, talking jibberish, alternating between terror and absolute robotic calm, as he was now? Could this be a sham, a show put on for the ever-watching CCTV?

_Just get him home,_ John thought as though dreaming _, and Sherlock will drop the act and explain everything._

They arrived at the door of 221B. As John searched his pockets for his keys, Sherlock rubbed at the door with his finger, as though trying to wipe away the black paint. He turned to John.

“Seventeen. Ninth one squeaks. Moriarty didn’t know. Come for tea. Johann Sebastian,” he said, conversationally.

John felt a chill at Moriarty’s name, a name he had tried to avoid saying or even thinking for three years. “We’ll get some tea, warm you up,” he said, trying to focus on the practical. “Are you cold?”

“Cold. Cold and dead.”

John’s hand shook as he put the key in the door.

As he climbed the stairs, John remembered how Sherlock usually took the stairs two at a time, his long legs striding up, full of energy and impatience. Now he was docile and quiet, following John one step at a time.

John preceded him into the flat, into the sitting room. Many of his friends had discouraged him from staying on at Baker Street, worried that the memories would keep him from moving on. But John couldn’t bear to lose any more of Sherlock than he already had, and he couldn’t bear to leave Mrs. Hudson. He had cleared out much of Sherlock’s things, but not until Sherlock had been gone for six months or so and John had begun to accept his death.

Sherlock now stood in the centre of the room, turning in a slow circle, surveying the apartment, tidier than it had been three years earlier. _Now he’ll drop the act,_ John thought _. We’re safe now, we’re alone._

“This looks like Baker Street,” Sherlock said suspiciously.

John’s heart failed a bit. “It _is_ Baker Street, Sherlock.”

“Excellent reproduction, excellent,” he said, nodding at John. “How did you get it out of my head?” He wandered around the room, touching the walls, the chairs, a painting on the wall. “There’s holes, though. Missing persons. Locked door.” He looked up at John with a piercing and accusing eye. “Where’s Billy?”

“Billy?” _Oh God, what’s wrong with him?_

“Billy, where’s Billy?” Sherlock said impatiently. “Did he fall in the hole? Need to tell him, tell him what I did. Billy will listen. Can’t tell John. Can’t tell John, he won’t forgive me.” He was becoming agitated, pacing around the room, looking behind furniture, then returning to the mantelpiece and slapping his hand on the left corner of it. “The hole’s here, Billy’s gone.”

John had a sudden realization. “The skull? You want the skull?”

“Yes, yes, close up the hole, sew it shut. Use your sutures, John.”

_Oh God. Something is wrong, something truly, deeply wrong._

The practical side of John’s brain kicked in. _Focus on this moment, now, worry about the whys later._

“I’ll find the skull later, okay?” John said. “Meanwhile, let’s get you cleaned up, maybe something to eat.” Now that they were inside, in an enclosed space, John could smell Sherlock’s strong body odour and while he was used to strong smells in his line of work, he was getting a bit queasy with it.

John led him to the bathroom, and was about to step back out to allow him privacy, but Sherlock just sat down on the closed toilet, seeming to forget why he was there, staring down at the tiles.

“Come on, then,” John said. He leaned over and started the bath, getting the water as hot as possible. “You’ll feel much better, okay? Just let me…” he said, and pulled the hoodie off. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

In the bright artificial light of the bathroom, out of the murky outdoor lights, John could see, really see the state of the man. Black curly hair hung in matted ropes, and John was certain he could see lice crawling through the mass. He remembered how vain Sherlock was about his appearance – how could he have allowed himself to get to this point?

His doctor’s instincts kicked in through the surrealistic moment. “Sherlock, I’m so sorry, but I need to cut your hair, okay? It’s got to come off. You’ll feel better, I promise. Just wait here a minute, don’t move.”

John ran to the kitchen and grabbed the first aid kit, pulling a pair of latex gloves on, then brought the whole kit back to the bathroom. He dug through the counter under the sink and found his clippers, a leftover from an unsuccessful and ill-advised attempt at a goatee a year ago.

He draped a towel around Sherlock’s shoulders, who seemed to be paying no attention to John’s movements and sat motionless, staring into the middle distance. John plugged in the clippers, but hesitated just before turning them on. For a moment, he remembered Sherlock’s vanity; John had called him on it time after time, teasing him about “not caring what people think” while his hair and designer suits were always impeccable.

_This is now, John Watson. Be a doctor now and help him._

The hair fell in fist sized clumps to the bathroom floor. John left a spare centimeter of hair rather than cut down to the skin but checked Sherlock’s scalp carefully for nits when he was done. Without his hair, Sherlock looked impossibly young and fragile. John could not help but notice that, but for an old, small, superficial scar above his left ear, Sherlock’s head bore no signs of injury consistent with a five story fall. John pushed that fact aside to be examined later.

John ran to the kitchen again and returned with a large garbage bag, and gathered all the chunks of hair into it. Then he guided Sherlock to his feet and helped him strip, adding the clothes to the bag as they came off.

He had seen Sherlock’s body before, of course – Sherlock had always paraded around the flat with very little sense of modesty, and John had patched him up at home whenever he had been injured on a case and refused to go to the A&E. He was, however, having difficulty maintaining his professional distance as he saw how gaunt Sherlock was, how filthy, and the dozens of new and clearly untreated knife wounds, bruises, and burn marks.

_What happened to you?_ he thought. _Who hurt you like this? What have you been doing?_

“In the bath, now, Sherlock, in you get,” he said gently, not allowing the rising anger inside him reach his voice.

The Watson household had always had a bar of carbolic soap in the house, and John used it now, knowing that its antibacterial ingredients would kill any other vermin Sherlock might be carrying on his body. Sherlock seemed to be semi-catatonic again, moving when John directed him to move but not responding in any other way. John guiltily checked the inside of Sherlock’s elbows and was relieved to see no needle marks.

_But if he’s not high, what’s wrong?_

John rinsed Sherlock with fresh water, leaving him several shades lighter and the water several shades darker. He led him out of the bath and was towelling him off, when he heard Sherlock take a breath as if waking.

“Hair was noisy, couldn’t think. Better now,” he said.

“I imagine it was noisy,” John smiled. He decided to press ahead and try to get some answers. “How long have you been sleeping rough?”

“Lost my face but had to come, had to come, see for myself. Saw the eye and followed. Follow the eye and look. Tried to find Baker Street but it was too loud, too loud.”

“What did you need to see about?”

“Had to make sure, trust no one. John at the crossroads, John in the crosshairs. John is Leopold Stokowski. Be sure John was safe. Moran-” Sherlock stopped suddenly and a look of panic and terror crossed his face. To John’s horror, he reached into his mouth and started scratching at his tongue with his ragged nails. John gently but firmly restrained him.

“Don’t be afraid. You’re safe. Don’t hurt yourself, you’re safe.”

“Can’t tell, mustn’t tell.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.” Sherlock calmed at last, and John kept his voice and face calm, but filed away the name Moran. He focussed on cleaning and bandaging Sherlock’s more recent wounds.

Clothing was a bit of a challenge, as none of John’s clothes would possibly fit Sherlock, and obviously he had none of Sherlock’s old clothes any more. He finally found a pair of fleece pants that he had accidentally bought in the wrong size; they still were well above Sherlock’s ankles but it was better than nothing. He found a stretched out jumper which also looked a bit ridiculous, but Sherlock was unselfconscious and patted the sleeve of the jumper as if it were a cat. John noticed tiny shivers in Sherlock’s muscles, and draped a blanket over his shoulders as well.

He threw Sherlock’s old clothes, the ragged blanket that he had been clutching around him, and the towel from the haircut into the garbage bag and tied it firmly shut.

He had expected Sherlock to refuse to eat, as he had usually done before, but was taken aback when Sherlock not only accepted the food without argument, but ate voraciously. John noticed that he used his left hand awkwardly, with the joint of his thumb at an odd angle, perhaps broken and knit poorly.

From the state of his ribs and the rate at which he was wolfing the food, John assumed that Sherlock had not eaten for a long time, longer than Sherlock usually would deny himself for a case. He had always been underweight, but John guessed he was probably a stone, possibly two stone lighter than before. He hoped Sherlock would keep the food down, that his abused stomach wouldn’t revolt and reject the food.

As Sherlock ate, John remembered his request for the skull. There had been some things in the flat that John could not bear to part with after Sherlock died, but neither could he look at them every day. “I’ll be right back,” he said, “don’t move.”

He ran to the hall closet and found the cardboard box tucked at the back of the shelf. He dragged it into the centre of the room, knelt and opened it. Sherlock came and sat next to him, peering into the box. After a moment, he looked up and smiled, a happy, childlike smile. The bath and food seemed to have relaxed him.

“You put all the holes in the box, very good, very good.” He reached out towards John as if to touch his arm, then pulled back abruptly. John watched the tension ripple through his body again. “Mustn’t touch, no, no, mustn’t show,” Sherlock said, his voice cracking.  “Don’t touch the stovetop, it’s hot, burn off your fingerprints.”

“You needn’t be afraid of me, Sherlock,” John said, trying to keep the worry from his voice. “You know I won’t hurt you.”

“Stokowski in the sun. Need to find Billy, tell Billy the secret, won’t tell, won’t tell.”

He watched Sherlock’s long hands sorting through the box, watching carefully for which items might interest him. Surprisingly, the pocket magnifier was picked up and immediately discarded, newspaper articles shoved aside. To John’s horror, the object Sherlock studied most carefully was his old mobile, the glass shattered. John had asked for it after Sherlock’s suicide, a sick desire to keep evidence of their last conversation.

Sherlock held it up to his ear for a moment, then frowned. “Wrong. Wrong. Broken.”

“Yes, Sherlock, it broke.” _Do you remember how_ , he thought, but lost the nerve to say.

“It’s empty now, John’s voice leaked out of it.” He threw it back into the box with a disgusted look. With a small exclamation, he pulled the skull out and cradled it. Focusing entirely on the skull, Sherlock pulled himself into his old chair, folded up like a doll with his feet on the seat, and curled himself around the skull.

John sat back in his own chair and let the last two hours wash over him. _Impossible, absolutely impossible. And yet._ He had not yet accepted that Sherlock was alive and right in front of him, and at the same time he felt, he _knew_ , that this half-broken man was him.

He needed help, and Sherlock definitely needed help on a grand scale. There was only one person John could trust now, and it was someone that he didn’t trust a bit.

He pulled out his mobile and dialed a number he had tried hard to forget.

Two rings and a click, and without any preamble, John heard Mycroft’s smooth voice in his ear. “Doctor Watson.” It was a statement of fact, not a greeting or question.

“Hello, Mycroft.”

“I must say I’m surprised to receive your call.  You made it abundantly clear last I saw you that you wished to sever all communications with me.”

_He must have inferred that from the black eye I gave him at the funeral,_ John thought.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Mycroft continued silkily.

John gritted his teeth. “Mycroft, how long has it been since we last spoke?”

“You know perfectly well.”

“Amuse me.”

“Very well – three years, two months and odd days.”

“I’ve never contacted you in all that time, yeah?”

“No.” Mycroft sounded impatient, but perhaps also a little curious.

“And in the _entire_ time we have known each other, have I ever asked you for anything?”

“No.” John heard a tiny upturn at the end of the syllable. Definitely curious.

“Then you must understand how serious I am when I say you need to come to Baker Street immediately.”

A slight pause, then – “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

 

 ***

Almost to the minute, John heard a tap on the door. _God, I hope I’m doing the right thing_ , he thought as he opened and let Mycroft in.

“Now, Doctor Watson, to what do I owe the great pleasure-”

Before Mycroft could finish his sentence, John saw his eyes widen. What must have first appeared to Mycroft as a bundle of blankets on the chair, a shadow created by the flames in the fireplace, unfolded and stood, then Sherlock strode to Mycroft with a snarl.

“Not Mycroft! Mycroft is fat, fat, this is his skin, skin only, flayed and laid over. Where is Mycroft? John said Mycroft would come, but this is just his skin!”

Mycroft looked thunderstruck, his usual calm demeanour clearly shattered. He sat with an undignified thump on the arm of the sofa.

“Sherlock,” he whispered.

“No, no, lost my name at Bart’s, lost my face in Prague, need to find John, have to see, Mycroft will help, where is Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice rose with agitation.

Mycroft shook himself minutely, took a deep breath and spoke. “Nous croyons en un monde, nous pensons, nous donnons des noms à des choses dans un autre.”

Sherlock hesitated, all the anger suddenly draining out of him, then answered, “Entre les deux, nous pouvons établir une certaine correspondance, mais pas combler l'écart.”* Seemingly satisfied, he returned to his chair and folded up again with the skull in his hands.

In an evening full of surprises and disbelief, John was once again taken aback. He goggled at Mycroft, who was still sitting heavily on the sofa. “What was that about?”

“A book,” Mycroft said absently, staring at Sherlock. “A book we read a long time ago. Proust. The phrase was like… like a password between us.”  He licked his lips. “John, I wonder if I might trouble you for a glass of water.”

John fetched it and passed it to Mycroft. “You didn’t know, then?”

“No. No, I did not.” John believed him; the Holmes brothers were brilliant manipulators, but Mycroft looked genuinely shattered. “How…?”

“I found him on the street near my clinic about two hours ago. Cleaned him up and fed him – he’s been living rough for at least a month, maybe more, given the state of him. He called me by name, but keeps talking about me in the third person, as if I’m not actually here. He’s been… the medical term is ‘disorganized speech’. Much of it is nonsense to me, but it seems to make sense to him. He seems to alternate between an almost catatonic state, like now, and then he’ll just start talking again.”

Mycroft seemed to be recovering from the shock but still looked pale and could not tear his eyes from Sherlock’s figure. “Do you have a diagnosis?”

“Hell, no, psychiatry wasn’t my area at all. Psychosis? Delusional disorder? Schizophrenia? I really don’t know.” John hesitated, then realized the question must be asked. “Mycroft, could he be high? I didn’t see any needle marks but…”

Mycroft shook his head immediately. “No, I very much doubt it. I’ve seen him… under the influence on many occasions. He would be manic, cruel, brilliant, but not like this.”

“Tell Mycroft, need to tell him, tell him for me?” Sherlock’s voice startled them both.

Mycroft glanced at John, put his water down, crossed to Sherlock and carefully knelt in front of his chair. Sherlock continued to stare into the fire as if Mycroft was not there.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

“Need to check, make sure John is safe. Follow the eye. Keep the secret, mustn’t tell, burn your fingerprints off.”

“What secret, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was focussed again on the skull, talking to it rather than Mycroft. “Don’t tell John, keep the secret. He won’t forgive me, clouds across the sun, raining, raining, can’t get warm. Wear the mask, Prometheus Bound.” He leaned closer to the skull and whispered, “John’s not gay. Not my date, not my date. Can’t say the words, stuck inside. Don’t tell or he’ll leave.”

John sat down heavily on the sofa. Mycroft pointedly did not look at him, and he was dully grateful for that. _My God. Does that mean he loved me? All those people teasing us that we were a couple, and he was in love with me the whole time?_

Mycroft cleared his throat quietly. “I will keep John safe, but you need to tell me from what. What is the danger?” Sherlock did not answer, but pressed his lips together as though physically holding the words in. “You said Prague – what happened in Prague?”

“Lost my face, lost my skin. Capture the flag. Moran-” Again Sherlock stopped and clapped his hand over his mouth, a small whimper of fear leaking through his fingers.

“He mentioned that name before,” John managed to say, his head still spinning. “He seems terrified by the name.”

Mycroft looked down as if thinking, and John recognized the look of a Holmes checking his mind palace. Suddenly Mycroft’s head snapped up again. “Sebastian Moran?”

Sherlock finally turned and looked Mycroft in the eyes. He did not nod or shake his head, but the horrified look in his face told both John and Mycroft that Mycroft was right.

“What happened, Sherlock?” Mycroft said softly.

“Capture the flag – capture – found me in Prague. Prometheus Bound.” Sherlock voice switched suddenly to what John recognized as a South African accent. “Time to play, time to play.” Then back to his own voice, “The Marquis, the Marquis, one hundred twenty days. Made me tell the secret, didn’t want to but it leaked out with the blood.”

John watched Sherlock’s tension and terror rise, the words flowing out of him now. “He said, he said he would bring John to me, missed him so, take him from the street, from Baker Street and bring him to me. Bring him to me and rape him in front of me, crack open his chest and feed his heart to me, and I turned my hand to water and the cuffs fell off, capture the flag, get the gun, get the gun, and the blood came out like Rimsky-Korsakov and I took his knife and it wouldn’t give my blood back so I took it from the others, skating on the floor, slipping on the floor, out the door, follow the eye, follow the eye, make sure John is safe, tell Mycroft to keep him safe, keep him safe-”

Sherlock’s voice was rising in distress, and John could see the tears running down his face. John swallowed, and swallowed again, his mind buzzing with disbelief. He felt dizzy.

Mycroft touched Sherlock’s sleeve gently and Sherlock’s voice jerked to a halt. “I will tell him,” Mycroft said softly but firmly. “I will keep John safe.”

Sherlock looked intently into Mycroft’s face for a moment, then nodded once, and curled himself around the skull again.

Mycroft stood slowly, without taking his eyes from Sherlock. “John, will you permit me to make a few phone calls?”

John cleared his throat. “Of – of course.”

Mycroft nodded, and moved into the kitchen, pulling his mobile from his pocket. John wanted to move to Sherlock, but felt locked into place. Sherlock seemed calm again, staring into the fire, but the tears were still visible on his cheeks.

For several long minutes, John listened to Mycroft murmuring in the kitchen, the crackling of the fire, the thud of his own heart. He filtered those sounds out and focussed on the sound of Sherlock’s breathing. He could not absorb all he had heard, all he had seen since he stepped out of the clinic doors.

Mycroft returned to the sitting room, tucking his mobile back into his pocket. “I have arranged for Sherlock’s transportation to a safe house, and for medical and psychiatric care. The car will be here momentarily.”

“No,” John blurted out without thinking.

Mycroft crooked an eyebrow at him. “No?”

“I-” _Damn it, John, don’t lose it now, don’t_ – “I thought he was dead for three years, and I found him, Mycroft, and you want to take him away from me _now_?”

“John, you cannot deny he requires expert care-”

“I am a doctor, you know, a qualified doctor, and his best friend, and-”

“John, were you not listening? Did you not hear what he said? You are _compromised_ , you are in a conflict of interest position. You _cannot_ be his caregiver.”

John clenched his jaw and made a fist so hard that the skin over his knuckles hurt, but he had to admit that Mycroft was right. “Can I at least come with him?” he said, furious at himself for the pleading tone in his voice.

“I don’t think that would be wise at this juncture, do you?”

John collapsed on the sofa and put his face in his hands. “God damn you Holmeses,” he muttered.

The silence wrung out in the room for a time while John worked on slowing his breathing.

“John,” Mycroft said softly, “I… inferred… three years ago that you would like me to withdraw my surveillance of you and the flat, and I did so. May I have your permission to reinstate it now?”

John stared at Mycroft. “Do you really think…?”

“I have made a promise to my brother I intend to keep, John.”

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, then John nodded.

“Thank you.” Mycroft crossed back to Sherlock and extended his hand to him, palm up. “Come now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft’s proffered hand for a moment, then rose, pulling the blanket more tightly around him. Mycroft dropped his hand, turned and walked towards the door, hooking his umbrella over his forearm.

“Mycroft,” John said, forcing the words out. “Let me know, please?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said smoothly, and opened the door.

Sherlock hesitated, then turned back to John. It was the first time since the moment on the street by the clinic he had looked directly at John.

“Goodbye, John,” he said, then turned and followed Mycroft down the stairs.

 

 ~~~

_Four months later_

“Hello?”

“Hello, John.”

“Mycroft.”

“I am pleased to inform you that Sebastian Moran’s death has been confirmed. The threat is eliminated.”

“Oh. That’s… that’s good.”

A pause.

“It should interest you to know that the official diagnosis ought not to surprise you – post traumatic stress disorder, leading to temporary psychosis.”

John considered this, his hand tightening on his phone. “Mycroft, Sherlock saw violence all the time, sought out a job where he witnessed the results of violence all the time. Why-”

Mycroft sighed, and when he spoke there was no condescension in his voice, just pain and gentleness. “I’m sure you can appreciate the difference between seeing the results of someone else’s violence, and committing it yourself. Sherlock also appears to have been tortured quite … thoroughly. Somehow he lost the ability to delete these episodes from his memory and they overwhelmed him. I and the psychiatric team are helping him to delete those memories now.”

John counted his breaths, his hand gripping the phone so hard it was shaking.

“Sherlock wishes to see you.”

John could not keep the surprise out of his voice. “He’s asked after me then?”

“No. But he does wish to see you.”

 

~~~

John got out of the black car – he had never thought he would ride in one of Mycroft’s damnable cars again – and looked over the country estate that was so grand he half expected to see Lady Mary Crawley walk past. It clearly wasn’t a hospital, but John couldn’t think of a safer house for Sherlock to be; anyone approaching the house would be spotted a mile off. Knowing Mycroft, he wouldn’t be surprised if there were cameras covering every inch of the property.

Far off across the grounds, distant from but within sight of the house, John could see a duck pond and a lone figure standing by a bench. He headed off across the wet grass.

As he approached, he saw that Sherlock was looking over the water with his back to him, and was leaning on a cane. John tried to make more noise to avoid startling him.

Sherlock’s head turned as he approached, then turned to face John as he came near. His hair had grown out and was starting to curl again and his face was not as gaunt as it was the last John had seen him. But the sight that made John smile was Sherlock’s eyes – focussed, sharp, piercing, and intelligent.

“Hello John,” he said.

John felt himself relax a little, but only a little. “You’re looking better,” John said.

“Mycroft seems intent on making me as fat as him, he threatened to have the doctor insert an IV if I didn’t eat. I give it another couple of days before he figures out I hid the lamb chops in the bougainvillea plant in the dining room.”

“I used to hide my Brussels sprouts under my napkin,” John said. “I’d get caught before the table was cleared.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock said, and then smiled.

They grinned at each other for a moment, and John felt some tension give across his shoulders.

After a moment, Sherlock used his cane to gesture at the bench. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not.” They sat, and John pointed at the cane. “We’ll have a matched set back at Baker Street, then. What’s that for?”

“Oh. Apparently my ankle was broken and knit together badly, so they had to rebreak and reset it.”

“Bloody hell.”

“It’s fine. It seems that in the future I will be able to deduce the weather with greater accuracy though.” Sherlock fiddled with the cane, much as he would have fiddled with his violin bow. “I, ahm…” Sherlock hesitated, looking down at the top of his cane, “I understand from Mycroft that I… I wasn’t making much sense when we last met.”

“Only a little less than usual.”

Sherlock smiled but did not look up. “I can’t recall much,” he said quietly. “It’s very odd, to not remember something that I didn’t delete on my own.” He appeared to be taking a great interest in the handle of his cane.

“For three years you thought I was dead. You deserve an explanation – why, what happened. I… I regret to say that I am unable to give you that.”

“I-” John felt his voice begin to crack, and cleared it, and cleared it again. “I’m just glad you’re back. That you’re alive. And – yourself.”

“It’s all a blur, John. I have some vague memories, but nothing very clear. I do remember seeing the London Eye from a distance. I must have walked to London from somewhere, using the Eye to guide me.”

“You did keep saying ‘Follow the eye’. That makes sense now,” John said.

“I said a lot of things, I understand.” Sherlock ducked his head down, avoiding John’s eyes. “I… I wish to apologize if I said anything that… distressed you.”

“No,” John said, and swallowed. “No, you didn’t.”

And John slid six inches further along the bench, and he and Sherlock sat, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the ducks and the gathering rainstorm.

 

  _End_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock quote from Marcel Proust: “We feel in one world, we think and name in another. / Between the two we can set up a system of references, but we cannot fill in the gap.”
> 
> It occurs to me that this may be one of the last reunion fics to go up. We'll have a wealth of new material to work with soon!
> 
> Edit: a question for you lovely readers. Everything Sherlock says does have symbolic or associative meaning. Do you want a "translation", or shall I leave it?


End file.
